


The Shape of a Stranger

by komagayda



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - No Ice Skating, Anal Fingering, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Porn with Feelings, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Voyeurism, mlm author
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-10 03:24:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11118897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/komagayda/pseuds/komagayda
Summary: "A game?" Phichit asked, cocking his head, "what kind of game?""Consider it more like an experiment, a means to prove our hypothesis about men and their hearts. On the first night you can watch me, on the second you can touch, on the third I will touch you back and on the fourth you can penetrate me." He answered, his tone never diverging from his cool air of detachment and stoicism."And what about the fifth?" Phichit asked, his ears slightly pink as the other man spoke. He was used to come-ons from rowdy patrons, but this was entirely different, laid out almost clincally, but incredibly tempting and intriguing nonetheless."No one has ever made it to the fifth night."Phichit, a barman atLes Garçons, a small gay bar meets a fascinating but tragic stranger and decides to try to prove him wrong, getting involved in a lot more than he bargained for.





	1. The Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> This is an entirely self-indulgent depression and trauma fic (because deep down, when I've picked at my own old wounds I look for catharsis too), so please tread carefully. I will warn for some of the darker territory this might delve into, but please be careful.

                Phichit Chulanont was a simple man with a simple life, he knew very well what he was all about and liked it that way. 

                He knew all the right things to do and say to play his role and did so every night. He knew the right smile, the right laugh, the right wink and courteous nod to thank the patrons of Les Garçons for generously tipping the friendly, affable barman as he mixed their beverages, playing along with the social script that had been written out for them.

                Perhaps that was why The Stranger got under his skin.

                He was only known as The Stranger, a spectre that glided into the bar every night at around 11:30 PM and stayed until closing time at 3:00 AM. A vision in the corner of Phichit's peripheral vision, with dark prying eyes who would say nothing as he drank the same tart vodka-cranberry juice every night, wordlessly peeling back the layers of artifice with his stoic glance alone, saying nothing.

                Whereas Phichit's other regulars had names, habits, quirks and masks of their own, The Stranger always remained The Stranger, refusing to abide by the habitus of social levity. He would simply silently assess them from behind his thick, black lashes, standing in the booth of their metaphorical theatre as the rest of them danced on the social stage like rusty automatons, hollow and dead as they repeated the same routine night after night. 

                It drove him insane. How dare this man come into his life and confront him with the hollow artificiality of it all? 

                Was it not better this way, simple and easy, gliding by like a skater on the ice, scoring the surface with your blades without breaking through to the frigid depths below?

                No, to think too deeply was to plunge into dark places, places where the scripts he had long since memorised and coy smiles would not suffice. 

                He would end this silent judgement tonight.

                "Hey there, is something eating ya?" He asked the stranger, leaning over the polished black surface of the bar. His tone was light and airy, warm in all the right places to show friendly concern without drawing out anything too deep.

                "Men." The Stranger replied in a calm monosyllabic utterance. His dark eyes glanced into Phichit's grey ones, always analytical and cool. He was handsome in a striking kind of way, with sharp features and heavy brows which gave his visage a sombre, serious appearance which suited him quite well. On the surface, he looked like many of the other young men who frequented the bar, with dark hair coiffed in an effortlessly dishevelled manner, a  button down blue flannel with the sleeves rolled up to the shoulders and tight, well fitting dark jeans.

                That was it, a bruised and broken heart. He'd seen it countless times, the man was drowning his sorrows, opening old wounds and pouring alcohol on them so as to disinfect them in a burning spray, killing the lingering notes of heartache along with everything else. An aerial assault of agent orange on all emotion, dangerous and destructive.

                "Boy problems, huh?" Phichit probed sympathetically, "well, you're in the right place for a rebound, but you're not gonna have much luck with that attitude. There's plenty of fish in the sea but you're gonna scare them off with that frown."

                "Men are contemptible creatures..." The Stranger elaborated, "animals who take what they want with teeth and claws and crush your bones beneath their jaws. To scare them away is better than to suffer as they go for the kill."

                "Well buddy, I don't know what to tell ya. I'm pretty fond of them myself..." Phichit replied, slightly put-off by the intensity of The Stranger's response as well as by the cool, detached tone that the words had been spoken with, "I mean, you're in this kinda place too so surely you can't disagree with me too much."

                The Stranger's lips almost quirked into a smile as he sipped from the edge of his glass, leaving a single clean semi-circle in the condensation, "you put a lot of stock in their hollow flirtations. I'm not surprised, you seem very adept at navigating the waters of pleasantries... but I wonder if that won't make it all the more tragic when you dip below the surface you so eloquently skim."

                He felt a frown pull at the corner of his lips. He had not merely been imagining things when he assumed the other man had been observing him after all.

                "I can't agree with that mentality is all... I mean, sure some people will hurt you but discounting all of humanity seems awfully cruel." Phichit replied with a shrug. He had never been fond of cynicism.

                "Do you think you're a good person then?" The Stranger asked, his voice surprisingly genuine for the first time, as though he was mildly hopeful.

                It was an interesting departure from the jaded detachment... one that made Phichit want to meet those hopes head on.

                "I like to think that I'm a pretty decent man," he answered earnestly, "I mean, nobody's perfect but I think I'm good enough..."

                "Do you want to try to prove it, then Mr.Barman," The Stranger said, his eyes drinking in his expression as if trying to deduce whether or not this was a part of his mask, "do you think you can be the man who can change me?"

                Phichit swallowed as he pondered the question. He never really acted on instinct but in this case, he wanted to try. He knew it might be dangerous, flying too close to the sun and melting his delicate wax façade, and yet he wanted to try regardless of the risk.

                The Stranger, ever so silent and brooding must've gotten hurt in the past, and Phichit's heart was an empathetic one, almost tender even though he seldom ever exposed it.

                 "Alright, what do you suggest?" Phichit asked hesitantly.

                 "Come home with me for five nights. We're going to play a game to see who is right and who is wrong," The Stranger said, his lips gently pulling into a coy smile as he drank once more, self-assured but not arrogant. The smile of someone who was genuinely curious about the outcome of his proposal.

                "A game?" Phichit asked, cocking his head, "what kind of game?"

                "Consider it more like an experiment, a means to prove our hypothesis about men and their hearts. On the first night you can watch me, on the second you can touch, on the third I will touch you back and on the fourth, you can penetrate me."He answered, his tone never diverging from his cool air of detachment and stoicism.

                "And what about the fifth?" Phichit asked, his ears slightly pink as the other man spoke. He was used to come-ons from rowdy patrons, but this was entirely different, laid out almost clinically, but incredibly tempting and intriguing nonetheless.

                "No one has ever made it to the fifth night." He said with a blithe smile.

                "Then I think I would love to try..."

 


	2. Night One (Or: A Feast For the Eyes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phichit spends the first night with The Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing too bad in this chapter, just some mild discussion of sex, purity and violence.

                Phichit swallowed nervously as he stood in front of the door, staring at the reflective numbers as though they were deep scars running in the white wooden surface. It was the time they had agreed on, it was the place they had agreed on and yet everything was so unbelievably strange and surreal to him that he couldn’t help but feel a strange palpitation in his chest, a trill of anxiety so real and pure in his blood that he had trouble masking it.

                He had trusted The Stranger in the corner without even getting his name, a foolish impulse that had come straight from his gut, but had since taken hold in his mind, twisted and ruminated upon for hours on end as he tried to make his way through his daily habitus until this moment, the moment he stood on the red carpet of the hallway staring at the bold brass numbers on the white apartment door. He lifted his hand tentatively and knocked on the hard surface a bit harder than he had intended to, the resistance of the wood biting into his knuckles as he stood back, smoothing his hair anxiously. He wasn’t naturally prone to anxiety, taking the slings and arrows of life as they came, and yet he felt the lightness in his limbs as they told him to run.

                Instead, he stood in place, listening to the telltale sound of a latch opening, the slide of a metal deadbolt, the click of a lock as the door swung open slowly, revealing the man on the other side. He was still handsome, his eyes still as dark and piercing as ever as he stood on the threshold, his features sharp and bold in the soft light of the corridor. He wore a dark purple button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, top buttons undone just enough to reveal the sharp, sculptural cut of his collarbones underneath, and well-fitting black jeans which seemed tailored to hug every muscle in his legs and thighs just the right way, giving him an effortless elegance which made Phichit feel small and underdressed in comparison. He glanced him over, peering into his very being with those sharp eyes as he swept over the other man. Finally, after what seemed like a silent eternity spent gazing into those twin abysses that tore away his skin and made him feel raw and exposed, a reluctant smile seemed to twitch onto The Stranger’s pale lips.

                “You came after all,” He said, his voice gentle and soft, “I wasn’t certain if I should expect you or not.”

                Phichit nodded, adrenaline drying out his throat as his heart raced in his chest, “we agreed on this, didn’t we? I would be an idiot if I didn’t show up now. It would be as much as admitting I lost your game.”

                “Do you play for keeps Mr.Barman?” The Stranger asked, crossing his long, muscular arms in front of his chest, tilting his head back as he looked into Phichit’s eyes unblinkingly, an almost flirtatious glint in them cloaked in a layer of analytical calculation, his voice simultaneously challenging and inviting, “is that why you’re here?”

                “It’s not a question of winning or losing,” he replied, shaking his head slightly. There was something about the other man’s suspicion of him that managed to dig into his tender flesh even more than his silent judging eyes had ever done. He felt strangely hot under his skin, almost guilty for a sin he wasn’t certain he’d ever committed. He rocked anxiously on his heels, trying and failing to keep up a casual front as he avoided those dark eyes.

                “Interesting…” The Stranger said with a subtle nod, pensive, “would you like to come in then?”

                Phichit slowly entered as the man stepped aside to let him into the modest flat, the interior was spartan, though this seemed to be more a conscious decision rather than a result of lack of funds. As he entered a slightly tight entrance hall, leaving his shoes and bag at the entrance, he noticed a series of paintings hung on the white walls. Dark paintings, hellscapes populated by strange, fleshy beings with wide open mouths and sharp teeth, hands wrapped around a vulnerable throat, miasmas of deep vivid colours and dark inky nothingness. They filled Phichit with a mild tingle of dread and interest, leaving him wondering about the point of such unusual décor decisions as he followed the other man into a living room, awkwardly sitting on the corner of a white sofa. The living room was similar to the rest of the flat, sparsely furnished and simple, with more eerie, disconcerting artwork scattered about the space and a large, bare wooden easel propped in a corner next to a large sliding screen door. By the looks of these context clues, Phichit deduced that the surreal artwork must be of The Stranger's design. The curtains over the large window were thick and dark blue, drawn in a manner that made the room seem quite small and dark despite the soft white lights, almost as though he were at a wake, intimate and sombre.

                “Would you like something to drink before we start?” The man asked softly, his voice carrying in the tight quarters.

                Phichit, not sure what to say for once in his life, simply nodded. He wasn’t quite certain why he was so intimidated, usually by this point he would’ve made some light conversation, possibly pried about the morbid decorations or location, which was in a fairly nice neighbourhood quite far removed from the rather crowded and proletarian area in which Phichit lived and worked. He hadn’t expected this, but at the same time figured it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise. The Stranger returned with a glass of water, gently placing it in Phichit’s outstretched hand. He tentatively took it, taking a drink as he looked over the edge of his glass, uncertain and hesitant.

                Finally, he put the glass down on a cork coaster on the coffee table, “before we start, I would like to know your name. I feel it would be slightly uncomfortable to start such an intimate exercise without knowing your name…”

                The man’s lips quirked into a small, coy smile once more as he set his own glass down next to Phichit’s, “My name is Seung-Gil Lee. Is there anything else you wish to know about me?”

                Phichit shook his head, figuring that such stiff and awkward artificial introductions wouldn’t do much to disprove his point about the inherent hollowness of their mutual interest. “I’m certain I’ll come to learn more about you as we move along, my name is Phichit Chulanont by the way.”

                The man paused for a moment, seemingly tasting Phichit’s name on the tip of his tongue as he rested his chin on his palm, the small smile still not fading from the corner of his lips. The smile was intriguing, drawing Phichit into its mystique. It gave him the impression of a very rare occurrence, a mysterious and fleeting event, a solar eclipse on the face of the dour young man.

                “Very well, Mr.Chulanont, will you be ready to start now?” Seung-Gil finally asked, his voice simultaneously warm and very restrained, as though ever word was a calculated move on a chessboard, deliberately chosen for impact. Whatever the plan was, it seemed to work as his voice worked its way into his chest.

                “Absolutely,” he replied, trying to maintain a warm and friendly smile. He was overthinking things, always overthinking things. It would be easier to dip back into that affable demeanour, even though it felt strangely inappropriate.

                He followed the other man as he stood again, crossing through the barren space into a bedroom. Phichit felt a gentle prickle at his neck as he approached the door to the private chamber. Bedrooms were cloisters, dark and private places where people’s thoughts bounced off the walls, ruminations floating through the air as their occupants stayed up late at night with their eyes open wide, staring at the endless stretch of the ceiling above them, as though they could find God in the stucco patterns. In a sense, entering the space seemed like a breach of something entirely private, as though he was crawling into a small corner of Seung-Gil’s mind.

                He knew such thoughts were probably a question of thinking too deeply about these sorts of things, projections of the various neuroses that nibbled at his own conscience late at night when the masks were removed and he was all alone with nothing but the rumbling echoes of his own reveries, anxieties and desires.

                In this sense, he felt a strange comradery with the other man, however, it seemed as though he had the confidence to simply wear this strange, honest self on the stage, rather than finely crafting personas in the backstage and wearing them like costumes to ford the choppy waters of daily existence. It was bravery that Phichit both admired and found incredibly foolish all at once.

                The bedroom continued the minimalist design aesthetic, with a simple dresser, a bookshelf filled with various tomes, a large bed, a bedside table and a potted plant in the corner. The one concession to the spartan decor seemed to be the thick, padded white armchair that seemed to have been moved into the room from somewhere else, dangerously close to the edge of the mattress. Seung-Gil gently cocked his head towards the chair, as though guiding Phichit to it as he closed the bedroom door behind them, closing them into their shared private womb.

                He sat down, unsure as to what to expect as he hesitantly lowered himself into the soft, comfortable chair, sinking into the plush seat.

                His eyes strayed back to the bed as the other man slowly crawled onto the soft mattress, his long limbs splaying and rocking in an elegantly animalistic manner. He smiled that coy, elusive smile as his fingers gently traced a line up his torso, stopping at the neckline of his shirt as they ghosted over his body.

                “Watch me,” He whispered, his voice deep and smooth like honey as his dark, endlessly piercing eyes remained fixed on Phichit’s own, “watch but don’t touch.”

                Phichit nodded wordlessly once more as he watched those long, dainty fingers moving to the buttons under his collar, deftly sliding them through the boutonnieres with a fluid, almost artistic motion, his fingers dancing along the strip of thicker fabric. Slowly, teasingly he opened his shirt, revealing more of his warm, pale flesh. He swallowed, transfixed by the long lean lines of taut muscle as he peeled away the Black shirt, sliding it off his shoulders as his lithe form rippled in rolling motions, simultaneously inviting and intimidating to behold.

                He elegantly arched his back as he finally discarded the button down, emphasising the sharpness of his contours, sculpted and lean, a classically beautiful form. Like a marble statue of a Greco-roman deity brought to life, a modern _Galatea_ , all sharp edges and defined muscle, not overworked, but rather functionally honed to move efficiently. Decorating the stranger’s chest, above his beating heart, was a tattoo of a chrysanthemum bloom, pale pink petals long and dainty as they spread and curled across the planes of his pectoral muscles.

                “What does the tattoo mean?” Phichit asked, his voice soft and dreamy as he trailed his eyes over the man’s exposed torso, absorbing the dips and curves as the soft, warm light played on his musculature. His gaze wasn’t lustful or hungry, but rather genuinely impressed at the sight, not having expected it to be hiding under the loose fabric of the button downs and flannels that had adorned his body.

                “It is meaningless,” he replied, “one of the people who tried and failed before you put it there. He wanted to mark me, to leave a memory on my skin… To claim me.”

                “Did it hurt?” He asked, feeling a slight pang of pity welling in his chest as he spoke. On one hand, this game seemed pointless, letting someone permanently scar you like that to prove some petty point about human nature was foolish, but on the other hand, there was something genuinely pathetic about being left with a meaningless inscription so boldly visible. A reminder of a dull and lingering ache.

                “Yes.” The man said bluntly, running his fingers over the surface with a slight shudder as he brushed his fingers on the tender skin, “it was as painful as you would expect having a needle plunged into your flesh a thousand times to be. Do you feel as though it would be less painful if there was a meaning attached?”

                “No, but the pain would perhaps be worth something then,” Phichit said, pensively knitting his brows, “I mean, I’m not a fan of meaningless pain. I know it’s impossible to attach meaning to every little occurrence in your life, but at the same time maybe if there’s something to be gleaned from it, then it’s not as bad as if it was simply random.”

                “Do you believe in fate then?” The man asked with a smirk as he gently continued running his fingers over the fine contours of his ribs, drawing attention to the muscles that crisscrossed below the surface. “It’s a soothing thought, that pain happens for a reason, but unrealistic. Sometimes, things are simply random and that is that.”

                “Yeah, but I mean, you could build your own meaning, right?” Phichit replied, “Isn’t that what allowed humans to survive this long… surely, if we just agreed that everything was pointless then the despair of the universe would’ve just crushed humanity into dust a long time ago.”

                “An interesting proposition…” Seung-Gil hummed, his hands moving down deftly as he ghosted his fingers over his pelvic basin, his hips bucking under the faint touch, sending a jolt down Phichit’s own spine as he watched, “what meaning do you suggest then?”

                “I haven’t figured it out yet,” Phichit said, swallowing sharply as he watched the other man’s fingers lightly brush against his crotch as he teased a pert nipple with his other hand. “Maybe we can figure things out together…”

                “Mmm, interesting,” He murmured as he bit his lower lip, his hands trailing slowly to his zipper, his delicate fingers clasping it and lowering it almost painfully slowly. Phichit felt a low groan build in his throat as he followed the man’s fingers with his eyes, transfixed, incapable of looking away as he felt his heart race. Slowly, ever so slowly, he watched them fumble with the button, working the tight denim down his hips, down his thighs, leaving him almost bare, hard in his black boxers. “You want me, don’t you?”

                “I’m sorry?” Phichit replied, feeling a warm blush on his cheeks as his nervous eyes flitted back to those dark, judgemental pits. He felt hot all over, uncertain, guilty almost as he felt his fingers grip the arms of the chair tightly, the leather creaking under his clammy palms.

                “You look like a dog in heat. They always do,” He laughed airily, tinted with a note of derision, “it frustrates you that you can’t have me, so you manifest it in anxiety and fear, you’re trying to hide it but it’s so obvious.”

                He shook his head, muttering under his breath as he let his eyes sink to the floor, bowing his head slightly in shame. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, spending his night like this. Felt as though he was fifteen again all of a sudden, and if his father knew just what he had become, he would be slapped for sure.

                “Keep your eyes on me.” The other man murmured softly, his voice pooling in Phichit’s chest, drawing a direct line to his lower body as the warm, tight jolt in his torso travelled south of his waistline. He felt the dull, lingering notes of arousal and knew he was probably straining against his track pants. He cursed himself as he let his eyes lift from their position on the floor. “You’ll hate me by the end of the night, they all do. Men hate what they can not have, the teases and temptations. That’s why we created the virgin, the whore, the archetypes that dictate our relationship to the other. Which one am I, Mr.Chulanont?”

                He found himself leaning forward as he watched, rapt and silent as the other man slowly peeled off his undergarments, finally freeing his arousal. He gently palmed at the rigid flesh, a soft moan leaving his parted pink lips at the contact of warm skin on skin.

                “Am I a whore for doing this, or a prude because I’m not doing it to you?” Seung-Gil asked once more, his voice breathy and sharp as he stroked himself, his hips keening to the sensual tempo as he fucked into his fist, his hard cock sliding in and out almost hypnotically.

                “I don’t think you’re either…” Phichit murmured, feeling his own hand run through his hair as he watched, his eyes following the motion of the other’s rolling hips, “it’s too… reductive. I know instinctively I’m drawn to you. You’re absolutely beautiful and I want to touch you. but… I don’t think I hate you for not allowing me to. It’s a reflection of myself, of my own selfish desires, not of your value.”

                “So, you’re self-centered,” He smiled, his voice husky and soft, sending another electric shudder down Phichit’s spine, “at least you admit your selfishness. I like that, it’s honest.”

                He felt his own hand delicately trace his own torso, travelling, burning a hot trail of sparks under his t-shirt as he watched the other man, drinking in the intoxicating sounds of his throaty grunts and choked moaning noises. Subconsciously, he felt his fingers creep under his waistband, gently running up and down his length over his boxers. “All men are selfish, even you. You wanted me to come here to feed your ego, to play your game…”

                The other man’s smile didn’t falter, rather giving way to another chuckle, warmer this time. The sound made Phichit’s chest tighten, he found himself wanting more of it. “I didn’t say you could touch yourself, did I? No matter, do it.”

                Phichit was passed the point of feeling ashamed, despite the flicker of embarrassment that ran hot through his veins. He hooked his fingers into his waistband, kicking off his pants as he sat back in the chair, palming at his own erect cock. He gasped as he squeezed himself, free in the permission to be as debauched as the man in front of him. The other man let out a satisfied hum in his throat, seemingly enjoying his effect on the smaller man as he let go for a short moment, leaning over to pull a small clear tube of lube out of the small drawer on the bedside table. He licked his lower lip as Phichit let out a low groan, his interest and expectations piqued.

                “That’s true…” He finally said, his eyes heavily lidded as he slowly fluttered his lashes, lying back on the bed and raising his legs and hips, arching his back delicately, elegantly stretching out every muscle on his finely tuned body. He uncapped the bottle as poured some of the clear, viscous fluid onto his fingers before allowing them to trail back down his body, circling his entrance with his middle finger. He sighed as he gently pushed the digit into himself, purring almost, as he pumped it in and out of the tight hole.

                Phichit was once more enraptured by the motion of the other man’s wrist, the ring of muscle clenching around the intrusion. He felt a warm tightness in his stomach as he intensified the pace of his wandering hands, palming hard at his thick, hard member. “You look- ah, really good like that…”

                The other man let out a soft, breathy moan as he slipped a second finger in, his index joining the other digit, scissoring at the muscle and heat within. His voice was broken, hoarse as he spoke in a heavy strained whisper, “It's amusing, isn’t it… we’re built to take. Even now you’re thinking of taking me. Men, creatures so built to take that the act of being taken instead brings us pain.”

                “I think…” Phichit said, his voice a hot pant, “it can be quite enjoyable with the right person… Surely you’re enjoying yourself, right?”

                “Of course,” The man said in a breathless moan, his chest rising and falling in deep breaths as his back arched more, betraying the fact that he had apparently curled into that sweet electric spot. Phichit found his own breath almost catch in his throat as the man threw his head back, slipping a third finger into the throbbing, pulsing heat of his hole, thrusting into the sensitive flesh, every nerve ending probably on fire. There was something incendiary about watching someone else bring themselves so close to the edge that made his hair stand on end and his flesh tingle with excitement. “It’s -ah- however entirely a matter of surrender. We can only… draw p-pleasure through conquest or sweet surrender. Sex is violence, m-mutually agreed upon violence. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

                He felt a tremendous shudder through his spine as he watched the other man fuck himself onto those long, elegant digits, eyes rolling back and closing tightly, face flushed, lips delightfully bitten as throaty grunts escaped them. He was exquisite, a work of art, a canvas, a classical poem of rocking hips and lewd squelching noises. His other hand twitched, desperately matching the pace of his fingering as he worked his desperate, throbbing cock. It was sheer electricity, magnetism that made Phichit want to please him, to belong to the other man, to acquiesce to his every desire.

                But he would not touch, like a work of art in a museum or a beautiful creature in a gilded cage, he would not touch.

                “Beautiful…” He muttered, his mind hazy and light as he felt the warm rush of impending climax build in his body, a dull, exquisite ache curling in his heart, “it’s not violence, it’s art…”

                He felt his breath, shallow in his lungs as the warm electricity of pleasure spread through his limbs. He watched the orgasmic contortions of the other man, the flexing and twitching of his muscles, his head rocking back, dark hair splayed on the white bedsheets, his mouth open in a silent prayer as the tight ring of muscle clenched around his fingers. His entire body shuddered violently as he came in thick, violent bursts onto his chest and stomach, the warm fluid pooling in his navel, glazing those taught abdominal muscles with a pearlescent sheen. Phichit felt an instinctive pull, a strange lingering desire to clean him off with his tongue.

                _Next time._

                He felt himself gasp for air and shudder in turn, warm and light as he felt the familiar tightness in his lower body, his legs buckling under him as his hips keened forward, his cock throbbing and spilling on his hand as he saw a bright light.

                He raised his eyes once more, staring at the beautiful form in front of him, sprawled on the bed, panting, entirely ruined. “The most violent moment of all, the climax, the renunciation of the self,” he murmured dreamily, a faint smile on his lips, “the sweet surrender all men give into, regardless of how much they wish to take and take and take. Do you still think I’m not a virginal whore?”

                “I think we both are…” Phichit said, running the fingers of his unsullied hand through his sweaty bangs, “and I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”


	3. loneliness in Robin's Egg Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phichit tries to pull back the layers and is left with more questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for animal death (technically, is it animal death if it never got to be born?) and implied physical abuse

                Phichit Yawned, stretching as he rolled over in his bed. His apartment felt strangely empty, cold and devoid of life. He had originally shared the space with his childhood friend, a slightly shy sports sciences major named Yuuri Katsuki who had recently moved out of their slightly dingy, cheap apartment to live with his fiancé, an older man whom Phichit wasn’t particularly acquainted with. He sighed, feeling almost lonesome for the first time since the dawn of his isolation.

                He’d never gotten used to being alone, and the feeling was not one he was particularly fond of, having spread the strangely empty, resonating echo of his private bedchamber to the rest of the apartment. Suddenly, there was nowhere to hide from his thoughts, the backstage had spread, the lights of the theatre had closed, leaving him to deal with his ruminations in the dark.

                He frowned slightly as he tried to remember the dream he’d been having… It was less of a dream and more of a memory projected behind his eyelids as he slept. He was five years old, a slight, delicate child, with wide grey eyes and brown skin which had marked him as an other amongst the people of his small white-bread American hometown, the one his parents had moved to before he’d been born to follow the dream they’d been sold so long ago. He had found it, nestled in the grass in the schoolyard. Pale blue, so pale, almost like the petal of a periwinkle flower against the bright spring green of the overgrown lawn. Gently, ever so gently he picked it up, afraid, his heart beating fast against his ribs as he searched for the place from which it had fallen, somehow unscathed despite the apparent drop.

                “What is that?” The older boy had asked, a tall, freckled child with icy eyes that made Phichit think of the glassy eyes of a doll. Soulless. Artificial.

                “A robin’s egg…” Phichit had answered, his voice small, his accent still thick on his tongue. He hadn’t managed to scrub it off his pallet yet, reflective of the parents who had taught him and raised him after their long days of work despite their weariness, “I want to put it back.”

                “Lemme see.” He said as Phichit handed the egg over gently, his hands shaking with fear. Wide-eyed and breathless he watched as the other child threw it to the floor, grinding his foot over it, cracking the delicate shell open. He laughed, running back to his brutish friends as Phichit stared wordlessly, the contents of the shell mixed with the dirt. A life eclipsed before it had started, yolk and shards of pale blue in the dust.

                It was then that he’d learned that humans could be cruel, with the sounds of the laughter and calls of _faggot_ in his ears.

                He shook his head, his thoughts foggy and unclear. Stupid kids doing stupid things, nothing deeper. It was like Seung-Gil had said the night before, things were inherently meaningless sometimes, this would be one of those moments. He decided to get out of bed, stretching once more as he checked his phone, opening his favourite social media apps and trying to ignore the stretches of happy photos of Yuuri and his silver-haired beau, of his friends with their cooing babies, all people he knew he should feel happy for but at the moment the wounds of loneliness and silence were too raw. He was a baby blue egg, lying in the grass for the fumbling hands of a child to find.

                He found himself curiously looking up the name Seung-Gil Lee, curious in a mildly embarrassing way. He was generally known for his ability to read others through the few details he could glean online, and Yuuri had always joked that if mixology didn’t work out he could have a good career as a private eye, which had made him laugh at the time but also made him feel almost slightly guilty about his perceived skill at invading other people’s privacy in the most discreet way possible… not quite guilty enough for him to stop doing so though.

                As he perused the Google search results, he found that the man actually had apparently had a fairly promising career in male gymnastics. He watched the video footage with rapt attention, breathless as he watched his lithe, lean body gliding along the balance beams, mirror reflections of that arching spine and those sinuous rocking hips, sending a trill through his spine which pooled in his lower body. He was fluid, as though he was made of light, semi-solid and ephemeral, his weight barely making an indent in the blue gym mattress as he landed gracefully after pirouetting and flipping through the air. Apparently, he had suffered some form of an accident at some point according to the news articles he’d read, and never truly returned to the world of sport afterwards. He had, instead, redirected his efforts instead on art education and his sculpture and painting, of which there were several examples. The work all seemed thematically tied into the samples he’d seen strewn about his apartment, dark and twisted and filled with a strange disquieting anguish... It reminded him vaguely of something he’d seen in an old textbook back in school, paintings by Bosch or Goya, sending shivers down his spine.

                The duality of the man who moved as though his muscles were made of quicksilver, and the creator of the strange tormented beings in their black inky voids. The man who talked about the pain of being taken and the sweet release of an orgasm. The only constant were those dark, endlessly intense eyes with their ability to peel back his skin from the other side of the screen.

                He felt even more confused than before.

                He decided that he could use a cool shower to change his thoughts. He retreated into the safety of the bathroom, the solace of water trickling down his own compact, muscular form as he escaped momentarily, his mind floating like a bobbing buoy in a sea of clouded thoughts. In the waters, the sharp contour of an arched spine, the cracked shell of a robin’s egg, the pale pink petals of a chrysanthemum flower swirling about, curling and sprawling in the empty space echoed through his mind. Nothing around him but the sounds of running water, like artificial rainfall as he ran his hands up and down his form, hyper aware of the warmth of his skin, the hardness of the lean muscle underneath, the lather of woodsy-smelling bodywash as he scrubbed clean his sins. A prayer for the modern day, sinful in its own right as he let his hands wander over his flesh, haunted by the sweet spectres of last night’s affair. He let out a soft moan, almost a whimper as his hands brushed over his semi-erect member, bringing forth the images and memories of the other man. He lost himself in sweet fantasies, the thought of those pale pink lips, slightly bruised by the indent of his teeth, choking back those delightfully lewd moans as his fingers explored his skin, the fingers pumping in and out as his hips rocked back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm. He bit his lower lip, his eyes screwed shut as he felt a warm shudder down his spine, tingling along the surface of his body as he worked himself over, his hands almost gliding over his warm skin, the slick and sinful sounds filling the air around him.

                He felt his breath catch in his throat as he came with a choked noise. He shivered as his hips keened forward, warm threads of come on his hands. He felt a pang of guilt as he quickly finished washing up, removing the last traces of his moment of fantasy. He knew it wasn’t a shameful act, but there was a part of him that always felt slightly shameful about the idea of acting out these desires at the expense of another person, even though it was all in his head. He shook his head as he quickly got dressed, wishing he could slip on another skin instead of only slipping on a new pair of sweatpants.

                Upon returning to the living room, a cup of instant coffee in his hands, he noticed that he had apparently missed a few text messages. He quirked his head to the side as he noticed that he didn’t recognise the sender’s number and was about to disregard them when he was struck with a sudden curiosity. His eyes widened, his heart racing as he read… he wasn’t sure when he’d given the other man his number, or if he actually had, but sure enough, the man had texted him. Apparently, he had a gallery exhibition opening later, and was wondering if he wanted to accompany him there at 7:30 PM as his guest. He looked at the clock, realising he had roughly an hour to get ready if he wanted to go.

                Despite never having been to an event like this one, not to mention, only having a vaguely cursory understanding of art in general, he texted a tentative yes with shaking hands.

                He flopped back down against the back of his sofa, not sure what any of it meant, but welcoming this strange new development.

                He waited outside his apartment, nervously fumbling with the strap of the messenger bag he carried everywhere… He wasn’t quite sure what one wore to these sorts of occasions, so he threw on a blue button down, a bowtie and a pair of his good work pants. He figured business casual was always a safe option, and if worse came to worse he could run upstairs and get changed lickity split if he was embarrassingly overdressed. He glanced up and down the road, noting the black taxi rolling into their general direction.

                Apparently, the other man was also a member of the No Car Club, which brought Phichit a certain level of comfort. It was strangely human of him. He climbed into the seat next to him, smiling bashfully as he let his eyes fall on the familiar sharp, bold features and dark, piercing eyes. The man gave him a nod and a smile, which made his heart clench slightly. Simply dressed in a black button-down, black sports jacket and white dress pants, he was simultaneously understated and commanded attention.

                “Is it your first time exhibiting?” Phichit asked curiously.

                “No, but it’s always a little nerve-wracking…” Seung-Gil replied with a slight sigh, “I would go without, personally. It’s an exercise of ego, but at the same time it’s necessary to survive in the field I’m afraid. No show, no exposure, no patrons buying my work.”

                Phichit nodded, “that’s capitalism for you. I’m sure it’ll be fine… I remember the first time I worked the bar on my own some drunk guy reached over and tried to fight me because I wasn’t allowed to drink with him. As long as no one tries to fistfight you, I’m certain it’ll be alright.”

                A thin, tight smile quirked onto the other man’s face as he spoke, his voice gentle and inviting in a way that curled in Phichit’s chest and drew the air from his lungs, “A fight might be an interesting divergence from the ego-stroking and fluffing that goes on at these things… Of course, if you’d like to slip away with me afterwards after I’ve paid my dues and made my featured appearance, we can move on to the real show…”

                “Of course…” Phichit replied, almost a bit too enthusiastic at the proposal.

                “I knew you would agree, Mr.Chulanont…” He said as his smirk deepened, “thank you for giving me something to look forward to.”

                The gallery space was intimidatingly large, massive and cold as he stood on the polished wooden floor, blinded by the bright lights. The building itself was one of those modern, sleek, granite and limestone places that were stylish to the point of utterly killing any personality the space might have. He shuffled as he looked around anxiously, trying to pick up the vibe of the foreign space. Phichit had initially always assumed he was something of a social chameleon, but in this case, he felt slightly out of place, like a stranger in a strange land who had lost their map and guidebook.

                Around him, the voices of bourgeois chatter filled the room, discussing the works in the vaguely haughty tones of people who seemed to feel that they could somehow dissect the artist under their surgical gaze, their words scalpels that dug into his skin, peeling it back to reveal the intrinsic meaning hidden inside. He frowned slightly, feeling as though they were almost presumptuous, assuming that they had all the answers.

                Answers that he was no closer to having himself, let alone these people who probably hadn’t even seen him literally bare his soul.

                He found himself huffing, turning his attention to a large painting in front of him, regretting it slightly as he trailed his eyes over the large canvas form. The body in front of him was achingly familiar, pale skin splayed out in front of a dark backdrop. The man’s spine was arched forward gracefully as long flower petals snaked out around him, seemingly drowning him, coiling into his throat. Phichit felt a shudder run down his spine as he realised just what he was seeing.

                The candidates that failed, failures all collected on the walls, pinned like butterflies in a specimen box to be displayed to the world.

                He felt a strange dread that he might find himself amongst them if he wasn’t careful. Still, he couldn’t possibly be the same as them, could he? Despite his flaws, he couldn’t see himself in the large fingers tightly wrapped around a vulnerable throat, or the close up of cigarette burns on an arm, or even the simple sadness of an empty bedspread with the telltale signs of someone having simply made a quick run for it once they’d had their fill.

                Just what kind of life did the Stranger have?

                Despite everything, it almost seemed like he was still, and would forever be the Stranger.

                Phichit felt strangely dizzy, the lightness in his limbs begging him to get out of the room, buzzing through his head. He wanted to disappear, he was scum just like every other man, taking and taking and taking. He slowly walked on the polished wooden floor, every step seemingly tremoring through his very being in a deep, resounding echo.

                And even the way they had come to their agreement seemed to reflect this reality in retrospect. Hadn’t he gone into things with the intention to violently change the other man?

                He found himself walking aimlessly down the hall, away from the voices of the analytical bourgeois, away from the collection of memories splattered on the walls, away from the Stranger. He opened the door to the bathroom, simply intending to splash some water on his face, maintain some sort of affable mask to help deal with whatever the fuck was going on back there… He would figure something out, he always did.

               _Didn’t he?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> true story the Robin's Egg story is lifted from my own boyhood.
> 
> it's just one of those things that haunts you I suppose.


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